


Games, Part Two of All Lit Up

by MemoryCrow



Series: All Lit Up [2]
Category: Alice in Wonderland (Movies - Burton), Eragon (2006), Labyrinth (1986), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Companionable Snark, Demons, Fae Magic, Goblins, Lust, Multi, Odd Friendships, Riding Crops, Snark, Witch Hunts, a bit smutty, culinary delights, fabulous wardrobe, new witch in a new town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 05:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19823770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: Mirana's new life with three demons.





	Games, Part Two of All Lit Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brokensoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokensoul/gifts).



> I should know when to say when, but nope. Still mightily inspired by Brokensoul's "Three Villains" series; these guys had a little more to say. :D
> 
> Once more with feeling, and a touch of sex.

Mirana made a name for herself in town.

In Marmoreal, founded outside the quarries of Wonderland, she wasn’t so very odd. A little touched, perhaps. Her family thought she would grow out of a morbid fascination with dead things. She would poke at them no more. Besides, her sister was attention-getting. She took so much looking after.

In the new land in which she found herself, she was an anomaly. Her clothes were weird and she was often barefoot. She had a cupboard filed with pickled entrails, not necessarily culinary in nature.

Shopping basket dangling from the crook of her arm, she glided in markets with her hands aloft, looking to and fro at the abundance of goods. The lacy hem of her out-of-date dress dragged the ground.

Of course, this meant nothing in comparison to her companions. There was that. She kept the company of three…. Men. What manner of woman was she? What the devil was going on in her house?

Angry people who cared not for the different or unfamiliar arrived. They banged rudely upon the door, looking with deep suspicion at the horseshoe nailed to its surface.

It was Rumplestiltskin who opened the door, and they all took a step back. _Whoosh!_ How quickly and with such flourish did the door swing wide. Behold! The strangest of them all. The queerest of the queer.

For he was, in fact, rather green. It could not be denied. While the color was abundant in nature, (the subdued, buff green of lichen and certain mushrooms; silvery-pale leaves), it was not typically a feature of a human being. Point taken.

And did it end there? No, it did not. In a certain light, he glittered. Parts of him seemed scaled, as a lizard. Those parts winked and teased with shimmer.

His teeth were unfortunate. His eyes; utterly mad, owlish and too big for his face. He was corruption, manifest. A ruined man, and yet… how jolly, how boisterous and pleased with life, with himself he seemed. It was off-putting; a display of evil in such a good mood. The very nerve.

They held and shielded themselves with various instruments of protection. Christian bibles and crosses, elements of the newest of myriad religions, meant to work as magic. The more practical carried shovels and knives; the occasional shotgun, though most hoped it would not come to that. The poor and yet curious carried pots and pans, bent cutlery and gathered stones.

None of these things troubled Rumplestiltskin, who was glorious. He extended one shapely leg and made a courtly gesture, somewhere between a bow and a curtsy.

Like his companions, he was so very fond of his wardrobe. Of the four in residence, it was the masculine population who bickered and fought for space in closets and dresser drawers. They magicked wardrobes into existence for accessories, alone. They created inter-dimensional pockets into which they tucked an obscene number of leather or suede boots. Let us not dally in Jareth’s hair products or attractive vials of glitter.

“Greetings!” said Rumplestiltskin to the angry mob, lavishly rolling his R.

His cuffs were bejeweled and frothed with ancient lace. His waistcoat was brocade and patterned with dragons; they fooled the eye into seeing vines and leaves. Both flouncy shirt and trim waistcoat were open to the sternum, which shimmered silver-copper-green and showed a few, ribby bumps.

They assumed he was frog-cold and damp. But, no. His skin was serpent dry-soft and quite hot.

His trousers were of leather and were snug. His boots laced to the upper thigh and were _thrilling_.

The mob was momentarily put off course by his merry appearance, but it gathered itself. It emanated menace.

A leader-ish person shouted, “Bring us the witch!”

Oh, cowards. They could not have overlooked the demonic, or least unnatural qualities of the imp before them. But were they prepared for sorcery of a darkness they could not fathom? Certainly not. They decided to pick on the girl, as was their plan, all along.

“ _Pft_.” Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes with a broad and unnerving smile. “Don’t be absurd. She’s _our_ witch. Go get your own.”

This was confirmation enough for the mob. It was just as they’d suspected; a witch among them. If her household was any indication, not only a witch, but a harlot, a Jezebel. A common hussy with uncommon tom cats, sniffing after her untrendy skirts. They all knew it wasn’t to be suffered.

A chant began, an untidy play on _burn the witch_ and _witch begone_! A few excitable sorts near the back gibbered in tongues. The passion was upon them; it jerked their hips hither and you, as passion can do.

Jareth ambled up to the door, two or three crystal balls perched upon his fingertips, spinning. The crowd went wild. (Faeries always evoke a spirit of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. Even the stoic feel the power). He surveyed them with narrowed eyes and lifted chin. _Vile peasants_.

His ensemble, in may ways, resembled Rumplestiltskin’s. An extravagance of shirt, much embellished. A waistcoat of laced-up leather which managed to evoke both ladies’ corsetry and something sneakily BDSM.

His lines were more elegant and lean than his companion, his figure firm, yet decidedly willowy. His trousers were of a soft, silky material and clung close to his body. He took a smug and quiet delight in displaying the bulky package between his legs, bawdy and euphoric with its own existence.

The crystals disappeared. The crowd, ever so stirred-up, collectively gasped.

“Whatever is the ruckus?” Jareth asked.

Rumplestiltskin gestured to the mob with expressive hands. “This lot wants us to _give them_ Mirana.”

Jareth looked offended. It was as though each member of the gathering had farted and the resulting scent was more malodorous than the moist flatulence of The Bog of Eternal Stench.

“Don’t be absurd.” He scolded the mob. She’s ours. Go get your own pythoness.”

He was met with blank stares.

The two dashing and rapscallion rakes were joined by a demon of a darker turn, and – here – the mob began to rethink itself. Chanting and gibbering toned down a notch.

Durza did not regale with a swatch of bared chest nor a snugly outfitted crotch and arse. No horned moon pendant hung about his neck. He did not glitter or glimmer, but was horribly, perhaps ritually scarred. He stared with quiet gloom at the mob, his eyes landscapes of glaciers or vast, arid deserts. Stem to stern, he was covered in sloe black and crimson red.

He was very disturbing.

“You think to take Mirana?” he asked the people of the mob, who – by and large – were thinking only of retreat. _Oops_ , said their faces. “Are you _mad_?”

“Of course they’re mad, dearie. They’re an angry mob.”

Irritated, Durza clarified, “Are you all _insane_?”

Looking away from the distasteful riff-raff, Jareth sniffed, haughtily. He muttered. “Well. Just look at them, Durza. Check out the ones in the back.”

Durza raised his arms, high. The air stirred, roused itself. It began to swirl, whimper and moan in a ghoulish manner, not at all like the usual air. Darkness descended.

“Yes, very well.” Rumplestiltskin sighed. “No need for all the crinkum-crankum, dearie.”

He snapped his fingers, and in a burst of cotton-candy colored, sweet-smelling smoke, the mob became a random toss of snails before the doorway. Weapons and bibles lay about, willy-nilly. The sneaking-up howl of banshee-wind died back. Darkness retreated. Durza looked disappointed, his bottom lip giving in to a tendency to pout.

“I was summoning wraiths to blow the very flesh and sinew from their bones.” He complained.

“Oh, but it’s so early in the day for your blood-sport, lovey.” Rumplestiltskin smiled.

A clever host, he gestured to the gastropods. “This will do just as well. Go on Jareth, you great poof. Walk all over the buggars in your high heels.”

“They’re not… “ Jareth huffed. Whatever. His riding crop appeared in his hand and he gave a nasty smile as he slapped Rumplestiltskin’s bum in a manner which may have been fond.

Rumplestiltskin swiveled and hopped. He said, “ _Ooh_.”

Jareth skulked past. His boot-heels made a gruesome sound, both crunch and squish. The squelch might turn some stomachs, but the three demons felt satisfied.

Durza said, “You’re both perverts.”

_They’re not bloody high heels_ , Jareth thought. True enough, the heel was stacked. It was also true that they made more alluring both arse and bulge. They made his big thigh muscles tense and flex in lascivious ways.

He liked to sprawl in a chair, one leg hoisted up, and admire the clever working of leather that was his boot. The squared and yet graceful toe, the high arch and fine turn of ankle. The tall and supple boot that insinuated a shapely calf, beneath.

 _Lovely_.

But they weren’t high heels.

Rumplestiltskin only monkeyed after fashion, looking to distract from the horror show of his morally and physically corrupt body. Fancy dresser and gifted raconteur, he nevertheless was clueless as to true stylishness and sophistication. Elegance, as opposed to costume. He certainly wasn’t born to it, as was Jareth.

He could use a bit more of a slap, a sting of a more serious nature on his green and pert backside. Considering a scenario in which this punishment might take place, Jareth caressed the flapper of his riding crop (had any ever seen him upon a horse?) up and down his inner thigh. Knee to crotch and back. Oh, just the lightest little tap to the cock, which was very naughty, indeed.

 _Lovely_.

Mirana went about her day. If Jareth gave her a direct order and it coincided with her own desire, she obeyed and watched him flush with pleasure. He strolled casually away to relive the moment and slap his inner thighs with his crop. Magically, he’d imported a throne, suitable for such occasions.

If his wish did not align with her own, she did what she wanted. It was almost as gratifying to watch his frustrated and angry snarl as he glared at her, wordless with disbelief. Had she no couth?

For heaven’s sake, he’d thrown a _snake_ at her. As if she’d anything to fear from snakes. She slept in a nest of vipers.

“Settle down.” Rumplestiltskin said, in passing.

“Go have a dance-off with a toddler.” Durza suggested.

 _What can you do?_ Their eyes said to one another. _Faeries_.

“I know what you’re up to.” An old biddy said to Mirana. “No good. Cavorting with those… devils!”

Though she blushed, Mirana said, “That seems nosey. Dirty bird. Oh, I need a pound of cow hearts, please.”

She left her demons treats. Candied figs for Rumplestiltskin, which he loved to split open with a thumbnail and probe intimately with his tongue. Honey cakes, to be taken with black tea.

Wine-soaked rose buds for Jareth, dipped in raspberry cream. He bit into them savagely, ravishing virgin buds with a delectation that was shocking to witness. A thin juice ran down his chin and small goblins rushed in to lap it up.

“Gadzooks.” Rumplestiltskin muttered, walking quickly away from the debauched scene of flower molestation.

For Durza, Mirana left glossy, poison berries of reddish-purple hue, covered in bitterly dark chocolate. He was particular in his tastes. He broke the candies apart with sharp fingernails and became hard of cock as he watched a ruby colored syrup ooze from the chocolate shell. It smelled of Bordeaux and tasted of transgression. He swooned, head swimming with the toasted scent of dark chocolate.

Moonlight was so bright. The moon was big and round and full to bursting with evil portent. It was smeared in a miasma of red that made Durza feel shivery and wakeful. It lit all the land beyond the window and made all shadows hard-edged and defined, utterly black. One step into cold shadow and a body would be gone.

Alien landscape. Rabbits were smoke and bats circled and whirled, confused. Moths fell to worship, in rapture. Night birds feasted. Oh glory, the rhapsody of the lycanthrope moon in the long, cold night.

The silver-pearlescent light fell into the room and blanketed over the sleeping form of Mirana. She was a vision in white, the last Unicorn. When open, her eyes were portals.

Ever a window dweller, a night owl, Jareth was nearly as ghostly as the White Queen. He sat upon the sill, naked and long, his beautiful fingers in a light and almost absent tease on his cock. The moonlight made marble of his skin. He stared up at the moon, bewitched.

In the gardens, the trees and all about the hinterland, his goblins scampered, made spirit by the moon. His pendant lay heavily against his narrow chest, its moon center aglow.

Durza sat on the bed and brushed the backs of his fingers over Mirana, sleeping on her side. White hair in ribbons over pillows. White shift, soft against her skin. Her face was half in shadow, a deeper shadow where her breasts nestled together.

His fingers brushed down her shoulder and arm, into the dip of her waist and along the curve of her hip. They brushed along her thigh, soft and downy, to the back of her knee.

Firm, he held her, there. Palm to her skin, hot, fingers grasping. He squeezed up the back of her thigh, no doubt leaving bruises, watching her move and murmur in sleep. His hand moved up under her shift.

Beside her, Rumplestiltskin stirred awake. He propped up on one arm; his eyes glowed and tracked Durza’s hand, like a cat.

The moonlight did strange things to his skin. Though it was inclined to be green, it was always mercurial. The moonlight made of his skin a bleached pewter. At mouth, chest and sleeping cock, a faint blush appeared.

“You crouch in the night and lech over her.” he said to Durza, his voice soft.

“You’ve already leched.” Durza said, equally quiet. “It’s my turn.”

Parroting an earlier conversation, Jareth said, “You’re both perverts.”

“Said the man wanking in the window.” Durza noted.

Jareth smiled, sharp and wicked, still staring up at the moon. It wasn’t yet wanking, though the time approached. It was fondling, both soothing and stimulating. His cock was long and swollen with blood, Durza’s favorite. It was hot and lush. He had half a mind to establish a fashion of coat-tails and boots, no trousers whatsoever, just to show it off more plainly. It was a thing of beauty; it was a bloody shame to keep it tucked away.

“At least this one’s more age-appropriate.” Rumplestiltskin needled.

Eying Rumplestiltskin in the glimmering darkness, Durza whispered, “ _Pedophile_.”

“I’m _not_.. “ _Ugh_. Then, “Oh, fuck off, the pair of you. when one is immortal, what can it matter? It becomes irrelevant.”

Durza sneered, but sobered as his fingertips became bold at the apex of Mirana’s legs. Rumplestiltskin, interested in the proceedings, tugged up her shift. Lush curves, heart-shaped bum. More shadows where her legs met. Durza’s fingers played in the shadows, sensitive to the velvety, peach-skin feel of plump lips. A soft tickle of hair and a promise of heat.

Mirana sighed and Jareth looked away from the moon. He watched the bed.

“Durza, get undressed.” He said. “Need you always be draped like a priest?”

“Priest of what, I wonder.” Mused Rumplestiltskin.

“It’s the scars.” Durza said. “They trouble me.”

“Please, dearie. At least you’re flesh-colored.”

Jareth smiled again, still wicked. Sharp canines and a smile that turned down at its corners, confused with a frown.

Reluctant to leave the kitty he pet, Durza nevertheless stood. In layers, he disrobed. The strange light made a grimoire of his scars. All but for Rumplestiltskin were so pale, it seemed they were fresh from the morgue. Rumplestiltskin had, perhaps, been left off refrigeration for a spell.

Jareth was interested in the sleeping woman, as were they all. But he was a different sort. His interest sprang from a sense of possession, ownership. As to Mirana’s true self, he observed at a slight distance, curious and even a little afraid. Her magic, her odd ways. He watched and wondered, but his lust was held in reserve.

What fucked with his mind and heated his blood was the sight of his companions, naked and predatory. The blood moon whose light touched his skin, lewd and invasive. Implements such as his riding crop, as well as words such as _implement_ and _ride_.

Being naked, so that his companions were free to look upon the litheness of his supple form, to bear witness and to venerate the divine gorgeousness of his cock.

Although, in truth, they seemed rather occupied.

Mirana woke, a series of dove-like sounds, water-like movements. After a few more moments of observation, Jareth rose and went to the bed.

The game began in earnest.


End file.
